Raw Edges (9 page)

Now she saw why Oshiro had frozen, still on alert but not committing himself to an entry. Several of the men wore the emblems of outlaw motorcycle gangs. Not just one gang, either. In the narrow field of vision between Oshiro and the waitress, Jenna spotted a Mongrel, two Reapers, and a cadre of Visigoths.

The leather-clad bikers were all sworn enemies, yet they lounged, relaxed, chatting and flirting with the girls, no weapons in sight. Interspersed among the bikers were men clad in business suits, laptops and tablets or phones at hand, conferring with the bikers.

What the hell was this place? she wondered again. Ignoring Oshiro’s scowl, Jenna stepped past him, inside the building, crossing beneath the twin marble columns.

“We’ve been expecting you, Ms. Galloway.” The waitress extended the tray and Jenna took a glass of champagne, using her non-shooting hand. Had Morgan called to warn the people at Crossroads that she was coming? Or maybe Clint had? Could he have somehow known? Was this a trap? She took a gulp of the champagne, shivering as the bubbles went down too fast and crackled against the back of her throat.

“You can check your weapons here,” the girl said, leading Jenna to a coat-check counter beside the entrance. Discreet paneled lockers covered the wall behind another scantily clad young woman.

Oshiro followed Jenna, his steps reluctant, waving aside the champagne. Jenna could feel his tension as he scanned the room, not liking what he saw. She followed his glance, past the lounging bikers. A large, old-fashioned bank vault, its tremendous round door standing open, took up the back half of the building. Inside, she could see what appeared to be safety deposit boxes, each with a keypad.

“Morgan said it was a bank,” she murmured to Oshiro. “Guess she was being literal.”

“Your weapons, please,” the waitress repeated, sounding annoyed at their dawdling.

“Federal agent,” Oshiro answered. “I need to speak to—”

“Me, I suspect,” another woman interrupted, coming up from behind the waitress. Dark-skinned with exotic features, she was dressed in an elegant black silk pantsuit that somehow managed to appear more sexy than any of the skimpy cocktail waitresses’ dresses. “I’m Samra. Happy to help in any way I can. But we do not permit weapons in the public lounge.”

“Deputy US Marshal Timothy Oshiro, ma’am. I’m here—”

Samra raised a hand. “I’m sure you’re here with the best of intentions, Deputy Oshiro. But, as I said, we do not allow weapons in our common space.” She gestured to the outlaw bikers who had all turned to gawk at the commotion, murmuring to each other with scowls etched into their faces. “I’m sure you can understand why, given our clientele.”

Oshiro met her fake, unyielding smile with one of his own. “And I’m sure you understand why, given your clientele, I’ll be keeping my weapons.”

“What is this place?” Jenna asked, unable to restrain her curiosity any further. “A bar? Bank? Brothel?”

Samra made a chagrined frown at the last. “Come with me. You can keep your weapons while we speak in my private office.”

She led them past the coat check area and a polished walnut counter that seemed to serve both as a bar and a teller’s desk to a room with dark paneling and elegant antique furniture. A man stood outside, obviously a guard, but he did not carry any weapons that Jenna could see. Samra waved them to luxurious leather chairs, while she settled herself behind her desk and steepled her fingers in thought. Jenna took a seat, smoothing her fingers across the baby soft fine leather, while Oshiro stood behind her.

“I’m sure you can appreciate that your presence here is quite unsettling to my clients. This is neutral ground, no matter which side of the law you’re on. As long as you abide by the rules, all are welcome.” She nodded to Oshiro. “Even a US Marshal. But we have rules for a reason. Mainly the safety of my people. I apologize if it offends, but I must insist that you relinquish your weapons for the duration of your visit.”

The steely set of Oshiro’s jaws told Jenna how unlikely that was. But she was no longer law enforcement; she was free to do what she wanted. Who cared, if it got her the answers she needed? She might even use Oshiro’s recalcitrance to her advantage.

“You’re Switzerland,” she blurted out, the pieces falling into place. “Totally neutral. Providing a service to all.”

“An essential service,” Samra agreed. “We not only pride ourselves on attending to our customers’ financial needs, we protect their privacy. Secure and confidential. That is the Crossroads way.”

“I’m after Clinton Caine,” Oshiro finally spoke. “He’s a client of yours.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

“You’re not actually
in
Switzerland,” he reminded her. “We have federal statutes that regulate banks. I’m sure your customers would not appreciate it if I got a warrant to examine all of your records and open every safe deposit box.”

Samra merely smiled. “You can try. But it won’t be easy. We are a private equity corporation, not bound by the FDIC regulations.”

“How does it work?” Jenna asked. “Let’s say I wanted to open an account. Could you or one of your people give me a tour, show me what that would entail?”

“Of course, Ms. Galloway.” Again Jenna was a bit freaked that they knew her name—but she refused to rise to the bait and ask how; it would be seen as a sign of weakness. Oshiro edged a glance her way, obviously wondering if she’d led him into some kind of trap. But so far, he seemed content to follow her lead.

Samra continued, “Someone of your background would definitely fit our client profile.” Okay…so Samra knew more than Jenna’s name, she knew who Jenna really was—more than what was reported in the newspapers. The banker had access to top-notch researchers. Or Morgan had told her. “But again, no weapons allowed in the public areas. Or the vault.”

“Your associate out front, she said you were expecting me. How?”

“Another client suggested that you might be arriving sometime in the next few days.”

“Another client? Clinton Caine? Or maybe his daughter, Morgan Ames?”

Samra didn’t take the bait, merely smiled. “We’ve built our business on referrals. If you choose to utilize our services, you’ll be afforded the same discretion.”

Jenna stood. Oshiro straightened but didn’t stop her. “All right. Show me how it all works.” She unholstered her SIG from her belt then also retrieved her backup from its ankle holster and set them both on Samra’s desk.

Samra arched an eyebrow. “The knife as well, please.”

How the hell? Jenna leaned forward to slide free the knife concealed in her belt at the small of her back.

As she handed it to Samra, she twisted and caught a glimpse of the woman’s tablet and saw an image of a human skeleton. Ah…the marble columns at the entrance concealed some kind of X-ray scanning equipment. Smart. Especially given Samra’s clientele.

Samra tapped her tablet and spoke into it. “Heidi, would you be so kind as to give Ms. Galloway a tour?”

Moments later, the pretty redhead in the gold dress was leading Jenna away from the office and toward the bank vault. She’d swapped out the serving tray for a small tablet identical to Samra’s. “Would you be interested in learning more about our off-shore holdings? I see here that you currently prefer the Caymans. I believe we could provide you with a more advantageous return on investment. Or are you looking for a physical facility to store cash deposits and other valuables?”

The bikers and their accountants had cleared out—Oshiro cramping their style, no doubt. Leaving only Jenna, the trio of waitresses—tellers? Financial advisors? Call girls?—the two visible security guards, bartender, and the coat check girl.

“Cash,” Jenna answered.

Heidi nodded, moving past the counter toward the vault. “As you can see we offer top-notch physical security. The vault itself was designed in 1932 by Louis Simon, one of the architects who built Fort Knox.”

Jenna paused at the thick vault door, stroking her hand along its edge. “Old school.”

“Yes. But it’s not the most impenetrable security feature.” Heidi swept into the vault and waved her arm like a game show hostess revealing a prize. “We have a state-of-the-art intruder detection system, and each deposit box has its own eight-digit encryption key, programmed solely by the owner. If you’d like, we can also add biometric security at an additional cost.”

Jenna stared at the keypads. Morgan’s notation on the map started with three digits—304, the box number, no doubt—followed by eight more digits. She moved beside box 304 but kept her gaze focused on the box diagonally above it, hoping to divert Heidi’s attention from her real target. Box 304 had a regular keypad, no biometrics. Good.

All she needed now was a few seconds without Heidi watching her. “Is there an empty one you could demonstrate with? I’d like to examine the interior construction.”

“Of course.” While Heidi consulted her tablet and moved to a box toward the front of the vault, Jenna typed in the code Morgan had given her.

The box’s door opened with a click. Heidi spun around. “What are you—”

Before she could finish, a blast rocketed through the air.

MORGAN ESCAPED DOWN
the rear hall and locked herself in the empty men’s room. She kept dialing Jenna until finally someone answered.

“Jenna, are you okay?”

“What the hell, Morgan! You should have warned me.”

“Of what? What happened?”

“Your father’s lock box was rigged to blow. Would have taken my hand off if I’d been standing on the other side of the door.”

“So, you’re okay? Everyone’s okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Your banker friend isn’t too happy, though. I think she’s going to want her toaster back.” Toaster? Jenna always babbled when her adrenaline spiked.

As soon as the cops heard that there’d been an explosion at the location Morgan had sent Jenna to—no matter that it was Jenna who triggered it and Clint who planted the device—they’d want to hang on to Morgan. Which meant processing her. Fingerprints, photos, who knew what else? No way was she letting Jenna’s stupid mistake put her in the system or land her behind bars.

Even if sooner or later they’d learn how wrong they were, Morgan knew better than to wait around for the scales of justice to right themselves. Besides, she’d gotten what she came for, she now knew where not to look for Clint.

She had a feeling none of his usual patterns fit—smart thinking on his behalf, but she was a bit surprised, since Clint was nothing but a creature of habit. Gibson Radcliffe. He was the key.

Time to move. She hung up the phone and opened the door, assessing her options. There was a fire exit, its red sign tempting her from her left, at the end of the hall. Wired to alarm when opened, which she could circumvent, given enough time, but why not use it to her advantage instead?

Directly across from her was another metal door leading into the stairwell. She closed her eyes, imagining the building’s layout. The law offices would be directly overhead, the empty renovated area beside it. Yes, that would do nicely.

Voices from the main area grew louder and more strident as men and women grabbed weapons and equipment. Morgan skittered across the hall to the stairwell door. Locked, but not for long, thanks to the picks concealed in her sunglasses.

She propped it open—it locked automatically from this side, which worked to her favor—and sprinted to the fire exit, shoving the door open, throwing her purse out into the snow piled up along the edges of the parking lot. Blonde-Barbie-secretary’s props scattered across the pavement, creating a trail. Perfect.

The fire exit alarm blared. She raced to the stairwell, pushed through that door, shut it, and ducked down below the glass window at the top, just as footsteps pounded past.

Then she raced up the stairs to the second floor. Entry to the side of the building being renovated was protected by sheets of plywood and a heavy door secured by a padlock. She could open it—but no way could she close it again when she was through, which would give them an easy trail to follow, once they began to search in earnest. Instead, she turned to the glass door at the lawyer’s office with its gaudy parody of the old Uncle Sam recruiting poster.
In an accident? We get money for You!

Should use some of that money for better locks, she thought as she opened the door and slipped through. No alarm, either. The lights were off in the office, and no sounds came as she entered. Out to a late lunch? In court? Chasing ambulances? Given the stack of overdue bills scattered below the mail slot, maybe they weren’t even open anymore. She didn’t really care.

She locked the door behind her and moved into the inner office that shared a common wall with the construction area. On the way here, she’d noticed the dumpster in the alley was filled with insulation—which meant there was probably nothing but drywall between her and her escape route. If she chose her access point correctly.

The lawyer’s decorating skills were no better than his advertising. The drywall hadn’t even been painted, was bare except for its original coat of primer. The only furniture was a cheap desk and a wheeled AV cabinet with outdated equipment, including a VCR.

She rolled the cabinet aside, knelt down close to the floor, and drew one of her knives, a serrated Kershaw Leek, tough enough to cut through bone. A sheet of cheap drywall was no match for it. In less than two minutes, she had a small door cut out of the wall between two studs, just large enough for her to wiggle through.

Good timing, because as she was pulling the AV cabinet back in place to cover it, she heard pounding on the office’s front door and a man’s voice radioing in that the office appeared secure. She huddled, kneeling on the plywood subfloor, her head still inside the hole in the wall, studs on either side, one hand grasping the base of the AV cabinet, the other her knife.

Everything went silent. She finished creeping backwards into the half-demolished space. The exterior walls were intact, but everything else had been stripped, leaving exposed studs, dangling wires, floorboards littered with debris. One window was removed, the opening filled with a yellow plastic chute. She eyed it. It wasn’t a gentle slope down to the dumpster, rather a straight drop. She might be better off climbing down the outside of the building.